My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75
Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.
Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.
You shall more command with years than with your weapons.
I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.